


Where The Wild Wolves Have Gone

by Cardinal_Sin (HU_shipper)



Series: Powerwolf Prompt Fics [4]
Category: Powerwolf (Band)
Genre: Aftermath, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Falk is a mess, M/M, Matthew's funeral, Werewolves, and further dealing with stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 15:47:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19872109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HU_shipper/pseuds/Cardinal_Sin
Summary: Losing Matthew was more painful than anything any of them had endured. But they had to move on. For some, it was easier than for others.





	Where The Wild Wolves Have Gone

The first thing that had to be done was informing the fans. They had issued a statement (on Facebook, absolutely no video) about the band going on indefinite hiatus followed by the reason behind that. Of course, if the fans were clever enough – and they were – they would soon figure out that the indefinite hiatus was just a nicer way of saying "We're not coming back. Not without _Him_."

Days passed slowly. The funeral – if it could even be called that – was held privately, in a clearing in the middle of a forest. Werewolf traditions called for cremating the deceased and scattering their ashes over a field, or basically any area untouched by human hands. The pyre they had built burned high and bright, flames licking at the wood and eventually reaching the wrapped body carefully placed upon the logs.

The fire grew then, with a sudden burst of heat and light, the flames reaching higher and higher, seemingly calling out to Heaven to bring back the soul wrongfully claimed. It had taken hours for the flames to die down, the ashes slowly floating back to the ground, in a cold, grey pile.

Falk had snapped then, the finality of the tragedy catching up with him and crushing him into pieces. He sank to the ground, his face contorted into a quiet scream of agony. His hands were buried in his hair, tearing at the pale brown strands.

Attila was the first to react, rushing to his side and kneeling in front of him, taking him by the shoulders. Falk didn't react for a few seconds, too lost in his grief to process what was happening, but eventually his shoulders sagged and he nearly fell onto Attila. The alpha held him, feeling the younger man's body tremble then the first hot tears on his shoulder, staining his shirt.

It was hot out. Not because of the fire, no. It was a beautiful, sunny late May afternoon, and everything still looked like the world was just the same as it was a week ago. Rationally, Attila knew that one death wasn't going to change anything, but the gleefully chirping birds and the unrelenting sunshine seemed unfair to Matthew's memory.

Matthew had been a true autumn child – like most of them, really –his nature a late October day, quiet rain and a crackling fireplace, a safe and comforting presence. He did not deserve to be laid to rest without a rainstorm to wash his ashes away.

The skies wouldn't start to darken for a few hours yet, but the wind was picking up already, small gusts weaving through the leaves and branches, whistling in beat with the songbirds. Attila watched as the ashes got swept up in the breeze, holding onto Falk a little stronger as slowly, the wind blew away the last of his beloved.

***

Everyone knew better than to force Falk to talk about anything, especially... This, but his complete muteness was a shocking surprise. The expected breakdown, screaming, fit of rage never came. Instead, the man seemed to shut down completely. The pack had agreed to move in together; to have their bonds and proximity providing comfort to them, and to be as close as possible to Falk in order to help him.

It was ugly. There was no other way to say it. Grief had left them all bare and vulnerable. Attila couldn't sleep well at night, blaming himself for not sensing Matthew's "situation" through their bonds, even though a small, hidden segment of his brain knew exactly how skilled Matthew was with hiding himself from the rest of the pack.

Attila had noticed how Roel was standing closer to Charles, always within an arm's reach. If it was to calm himself or to make the other feel safer, Attila didn't know, but seeing the pained lines in the corners of Charles' mouth and eyes fade a little was more than enough.

Falk was wasting away slowly. It was obvious. He wasn't sleeping much, if at all, the bags under his eyes darkening and deepening with each passing day. He didn't really eat either, his only sustenance the various bottles of beer he kept walking around with, occasionally taking long gulps.

Attila suspected that it was more of a nervous tick than a genuine attempt at getting drunk. Still, it hurt to watch. He knew that letting Falk die after Matthew was not an option, but if the man refused to talk at all, how were they supposed to get anywhere with him?

***

It all went to shit in a spectacular way. Acceptance was slowly settling into the pack's mind, softening the sharp edges of the unspeakable pain left in Matthew's wake. Falk seemed to be doing a bit better, his waxy skin not anymore looking a size too big on him. He was still basically a skeleton, but a healthier one than before.

That was until he accidentally found one of Matthew's shirts in the laundry.

It was clean, waiting to be folded and put away for the last time, and Attila had been meaning to get to it, pinkie promise. He honestly had no idea what Falk had been doing in there in the first place.

The sobbing was heartbreaking. Attila knew Falk to be an emotionally reserved man, someone who was able to keep an entire relationship under the covers for years without his own band members having any idea. And said band members were werewolves, for God's sake.

Attila was on Falk side in seconds, asking him if he was okay, placing his hand on the taller man's back, applying light pressure in an attempt to centre him a little. Falk had turned to him, eyes bloodshot and glossed over, snot and tears smearing across his face.

"Of course I'm not okay, Attila!" He cried out, his voice hoarse and breaking a little on the alpha's name.

"You fucking wolves get to bond over shared memories of Matthew when you're feeling down, but thanks to my idiotic genes, I can't even have that! I have nothing of him left; you know what that feels like? I don't have a body to mourn, I don't have a grave to visit! Hell, if it were up to you, I wouldn't even have this godforsaken shirt now! Look at me, clutching a worthless shred of fabric and pretending it still means something because that's all I have! Because your idiotic traditions took everything from me that was him. And still, you ask me if I'm _okay_?"

With that, he threw the shirt on the ground and stood up. Attila watched as he wiped at his cheeks furiously, trying to clean up his mess at least a little. Before Attila managed to catch himself and say anything – I'm sorry; it's not your fault – Falk was out the door.

Attila finally lost his balance, falling back from his crouched position, supporting himself with his hands. He knew he would have to go after Falk; stop him from harming himself or running away, but now, he could only stare at the simple black band t-shirt Falk had thrown at the ground.


End file.
